Lucy Montgomery - Emily of New Moon

"Why?”

"Because the Catholics have to do just what their priests tell them to, haven't they?”

"I don't know — I don't know anything about them. WE are Presbyterians.”

Emily gave her head a little toss. Mrs Kent was known to be an "English Church" woman and though Teddy went to the Presbyterian Sunday-school, that fact gave him scanty standing among bred-in- the-bone Presbyterian circles.

"If your Aunt Elizabeth went to Father Cassidy at White Cross and asked him to stop Lofty John, maybe he'd do it," persisted Teddy.

"Aunt Elizabeth would never do that," said Emily positively. "I'm sure of it. She's too proud.”

"Not even to save the bush?”

"Not even for that.”

"Then I guess nothing can be done," said Teddy rather crestfallen.

"Look here — see what I've made. This is a picture of Lofty John in purgatory, with three little devils sticking red-hot pitchforks into him. I copied some of it out of one of Mother's books — Dante's Infernal, I think it was — but I put Lofty John in place of the man in the book. You can have it.”

"I don't want it." Emily uncoiled her legs and got up. She was past the stage when inflicting imaginary torments on Lofty John could comfort her. She had already slain him in several agonizing ways during her night vigils. But an idea had come to her — a daring, breathless idea. "I must go home now, Teddy — it's supper- time.”

Teddy pocketed his despised sketch — which was really a wonderful bit of work if either of them had had the sense to know it: the expression of anguish in Lofty John's face as a merry little devil touched him up with a pitchfork would have been the despair of many a trained artist. He went home wishing he could help Emily; it was all wrong that a creature like Emily — with soft purple-gray eyes and a smile that made you think of all sorts of wonderful things you couldn't put into words — should be unhappy. Teddy felt so worried about it that he added a few more devils to his sketch of Lofty John in purgatory and lengthened the prongs of their pitchforks quite considerably.

Emily went home with a determined twist to her mouth. She ate as much supper as she could — which wasn't much, for Aunt Elizabeth's face would have destroyed her appetite if she had had any — and then sneaked out of the house by the front door. Cousin Jimmy was working in his garden but he did not call her. Cousin Jimmy was always very sorrowful now. Emily stood a moment on the Grecian porch and looked at Lofty John's bush — green-bosomed, waving, all lovely. Would it be a desecrated waste of stumps by Monday night?

Goaded by the thought Emily cast fear and hesitation to the winds and started briskly off down the lane. When she reached the gate she turned to the left on the long red road of mystery that ran up the Delectable Mountain. She had never been on that road before; it ran straight to White Cross; Emily was going to the parish house there to interview Father Cassidy. It was two miles to White Cross and Emily walked it all too soon — not because it was a beautiful road of wind and wild fern, haunted by little rabbits — but because she dreaded what awaited her at the end. She had been trying to think what she should say — how she should say it; but her invention failed her. She had no acquaintance with Catholic priests, and couldn't imagine how you should talk to them at all. They were even more mysterious and unknowable than ministers. Suppose Father Cassidy should be dreadfully angry at her daring to come there and ask a favour. Perhaps it WAS a dreadful thing to do from every point of view. And very likely it would do no good. Very likely Father Cassidy would refuse to interfere with Lofty John, who was a good Catholic, while she was, in his opinion, a heretic. But for any chance, even the faintest, of averting the calamity impending over New Moon, Emily would have faced the entire Sacred College.

Horribly frightened, miserably nervous as she was, the idea of turning back never occurred to her. She was only sorry that she hadn't put on her Venetian beads. They might have impressed Father Cassidy.

Although Emily had never been to White Cross she knew the parish house when she saw it — a fine, tree-embowered residence near the big white chapel with the flashing gilt cross on its spire and the four gilt angels, one on each of the little spires at the corners.

Emily thought them very beautiful as they gleamed in the light of the lowering sun, and wished they could have some on the plain white church at Blair Water. She couldn't understand why Catholics should have all the angels. But there was not time to puzzle over this, for the door was opening and the trim little maid was looking a question.

"Is — Father Cassidy — at — home?" asked Emily, rather jerkily.

"Yes.”

"Can — I — see — him?”

"Come in," said the little maid. Evidently there was no difficulty about seeing Father Cassidy — no mysterious ceremonies such as Emily had half expected, even if she were allowed to see him at all. She was shown into a book-lined room and left there, while the maid went to call Father Cassidy, who, she said, was working in the garden. THAT sounded quite natural and encouraging. If Father Cassidy worked in a garden, he could not be so very terrible.

Emily looked about her curiously. She was in a very pretty room — with cosy chairs, and pictures and flowers. Nothing alarming or uncanny about it — except a huge black cat who was sitting on the top of one of the bookcases. It was really an enormous creature.

Emily adored cats and had always felt at home with any of them.

But she had never seen such a cat as this. What with its size and its insolent, gold-hued eyes, set like living jewels in its black velvet face, it did not seem to belong to the same species as nice, cuddly, respectable kittens at all. Mr Dare would never have had such a beast about his manse. All Emily's dread of Father Cassidy returned.

And then in came Father Cassidy, with the friendliest smile in the world. Emily took him in with her level glance as was her habit — or gift — and never again in the world was she the least bit afraid of Father Cassidy. He was big and broad-shouldered, with brown eyes and brown hair; and his very face was so deeply tanned from his inveterate habit of going about bareheaded in merciless sunshine, that it was brown, too. Emily thought he looked just like a big nut — a big, brown, wholesome nut.

Father Cassidy looked at her as he shook hands; Emily had one of her visitations of beauty just then. Excitement had brought a wildrose hue to her face, the sunlight brought out the watered-silk gloss of her black hair; her eyes were softly dark and limpid; but it was at her ears Father Cassidy suddenly bent to look. Emily had a moment of agonized wonder if they were clean.

"She's got pointed ears," said Father Cassidy, in a thrilling whisper. "Pointed ears! I KNEW she came straight from fairyland the minute I saw her. Sit down, Elf — if elves do sit — sit down and give me the latest news av Titania's court.”

Emily's foot was now on her native heath. Father Cassidy talked her language, and he talked it in such a mellow, throaty voice, slurring his "ofs" ever so softly as became a proper Irishman. But she shook her head a little sadly. With the burden of her errand on her soul she could not play the part of ambassadress from Elfland.

"I'm only Emily Starr of New Moon," she said; and then gasped hurriedly, because there must be no deception — no sailing under false colours, "and I'm a Protestant.”

"And a very nice little Protestant you are," said Father Cassidy.

"But for sure I'm a bit disappointed. I'm used to Protestants — the woods hereabouts being full av them — but it's a hundred years since the last elf called on me.”